


La Verra Dolcezza

by comradery



Category: Marco Polo (TV), Marco Polo - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Daddy Issues, F/M, First In The Fandom, Gen, I love everyone, I tried to make him more compelling than he often is in the show, Magical Realism, Philosophizing, also I tried to improve the dialogue, and more pairings, and this show is so bad but it's so good, everything written in "English" is (for the most part) spoken in either Chinese or Mongolian, i think, marco is a clerk and an artist and a storyteller, marco polo trash, more characters will be added later, pretentious use of other languages, this is basically a more introspective version of the tv show, this story will contain surprising amounts of Jingim and also Hundred Eyes and Khutulun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:53:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comradery/pseuds/comradery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The nuns always said that he had a way with words; he practically pulls pictures out of thin air. But not actually, of course--no one can make something happen just by talking about it. What Marco does is much more complicated than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. L'Inizio della Fine

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Hey everyone uhhh anyone remember this show? Anyway, I'm not sure how much/if I'll be continuing this story, but I'm working on editing the chapters I posted like...3 years ago...yeah. RIP. Sorry if I kept anyone waiting. (Confession: I never finished the 2nd season, but it's honestly not super relevant to where I want this story to go.)

Marco gazed up cautiously through his eyelashes and struggled not to gape at the figure before him. The man—the king—before him reclined on a great throne draped with furs and pelts.  The Khan of Khans was large, with dark eyes and a heavy build, not so much seated as rooted, like an immense cypress tree in the middle of a desert of gold and green stone.

His father beside him was unsure and apologetic, trying desperately to explain himself, unable to decipher the khan’s intentions.  He spoke heavily accented Mongolian, his native Italian tongue carving the words upwards in choppy inelegant strokes.

“Lord Kublai, please accept our remorse, our, our most humble apologies. Our priests could not bear the rigors of the journey.  This land, you already know, is harsh and unforgiving.  But we did bring you holy oil from—“

The Khan exhaled a soft snort of derision.  “Your men of God retreat, and yet this boy advances.  It says very little for your savior, hmm?” His voice was as heavy as he was, rich and slow in cadence, flowing from his tongue like milk.  Marco could almost see the words settling onto the floor, weighted down with dark amusement. The Khan stared at them imperiously and quirked an eyebrow. The silence of his court was suffocating, the stillness unbroken by even the rustle of bodies against fabric, the shift of slippered feet, or the questioning hum of restless courtiers. Marco wondered, idly, what courtiers were called in their own language. He would have to ask.

Niccolo pressed his fist fervently against his heart, and bowed his head.  Marco risked a glance to the side, but wasn't able to catch his father's eye. Hopefully he had also caught the warning in the question. A glint of sun on scales amongst the waving grass. “Loyalty of a mortal son to a mortal father, Great Khan.  He is, as you say, just a boy.”

“Hmm."  Kublai Khan weighed the vial of thick, sickly yellow liquid. "Holy oil from the pontiff who wishes to spread Christianity throughout my lands.  Is this not the same Pope who has called me "the spawn of Satan?”  Well, Satan I am not, but even a holy man may make a deal with the devil.  I will say this and you will listen.  Christianity is welcome in my kingdom.  As is Buddhism, Judaism, Islam, and the Eternal Blue Sky of my grandfather, Genghis Khan, descended from a wolf.  So, go home to your weak old priests and tell your Pope that he himself must bow before me and pledge his fealty to me.  Religions are free in my lands, but passage is not." 

Marco nearly grinned. The Pope, adorned in his crimson robes and finery, bowing before this colossus of a man--quite a striking image indeed. The Khan's ambitions had not been exaggerated. 

"As for you merchants, you crossed ocean and mountain and the great Takla Makan Desert.  A place not many men survive.  Describe for me my desert.”


	2. Del Deserto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya! Sorry that I've been abysmal at updating! Hopefully the fact that this chapter is longer than the first make up for that. Thank you guys so much for leaving comments and kudos on this! It's super encouraging, and I'm glad that you're enjoying it so far. Fingers crossed that this chapter lives up to your expectations. A quick note about the languages here. They are speaking Mongolian unless otherwise specified, OR if the words are spoken in italics. This indicates Italian. There were a couple times where I both used Italian words and italicized them, but hopefully this isn't too confusing. Just remember, always Mongolian unless it's italicized or specifically says that they are using a different language. So the stuff Marco says in the end in italics-he's speaking Italian.

Niccolo looked up at the Khan, incredulous, and then glanced sidelong at his brother, who wore the same surprised expression that he felt on his own face.  

"It is...a most...barren region, Sire," he began haltingly.

"No water.  No life, Lord Khan.  Not even a bird," Maffeo interjected.

Marco glanced back and forth between the two men.  This could not truly be all they had observed of the great desert--that it was, indeed, a desert!  A blind man could have given more detail.

Niccolo jerked his head in affirmation. "Not even a bird," and then, seeming to gain confidence, "It is, Great Khan, a sea of death."

This last propelled Marco into action, as the Kahn made a face that mirrored his own feelings on the matter. A sea of death indeed!  It was as if his father and uncle had been wandering about with their eyes closed and their hands over their ears.  Surface impressions and trifling details.  (And there  _had_ been a bird, unless he was very much mistaken.)

"Yet very much alive.  At night you hear it.  The shifting sands, they sing."  It had been beautiful and deadly, the perfectly carved sands stretching endlessly in every direction, dancing at night with the wind under the swollen moon.

His father reached out as if to pull him backwards.  "Humble apologies, Sire.  He does not yet know the rules of the -"

Kublai held up his hand, and then gestured at Marco.  "Continue."

He was emboldened by this gesture, and continued more confidently.  "Voices like spirits trying to lure you off course.  This is why men die out there."  Marco was struck by an idea, then.  Surely the khan would not mind hearing such words in another tongue.  In the tongue of the Uighurs, he described the call of the desert, the song of aching beauty that drew men to their deaths.  In French, he remembered suddenly, was  _l'appel du vide._ The urge to jump from very high places.  Different, he supposed, but the same in the end.

"You learned the tongue of the Uighurs?"

"Three years was not long enough to learn it all."

Kublai Khan questioned him, still in the tongue of the Uighurs, and rapidly, they exchanged words in a language that many in the court had not heard in a long time.  The khan seemed greatly pleased with this new development, and Marco nearly preened under the opportunity to practice his mastery of such a foreign, hidden language.  

Kublai chuckled, and then his wife spoke for the first time.  She asked in a dangerous honey-sweet voice, returning the conversation to Mongolian.  "Of all the lands a traveler passes through, which province contains, in your eye, the most beautiful women of all?"

"I find that all women, no matter from which land--they are all beautiful in their own unique manner.  In Italy, we have a saying: ' _La vera dolcezza del vino è un sapore._ '  The true sweetness of wine is one flavor."  Marco smiled.

Several people scattered throughout the great room laughed indulgently, as did Kublai.  "You have a clever mind--for a Latin."  His joking demeanor dropped away, and his face was serious and stony.  "I made one request.  It was not for oil.  It was for priests.  With this, you failed.  Take your leave.  Go, Latins.  You are banished forever."

Marco nearly reeled backward from the khan's sudden change in mood, but his father was not so dismayed.  Niccolo, ever the shrewd businessman, knew an opening when he saw one.  Like a moth drawn to the faintest pinprick of light, he pushed towards the opportunity he saw before him now.

He stepped forward.  "You are...most correct, Lord Khan.  The boy has a clever mind and excellent perception.  He is my son and most dear to me.  But...if it pleases Your Greatness, you may take him as your man and servant."  Marco turned to his father.  Surely he was--he could not be--

Kublai was intrigued by this offer.  The boy was truly quick of word and nimble of mind.  "What do you wish in return?"

"The opportunity to pay tribute to my Khan from my journeys along the Silk Road."

Marco blinked, again thrown off-balance by the turn in conversation.  He could not be serious..." _Father, what are you doing?_ "

" _Marco, trust this.  Please be silent._ "

He whispered, vehement.  " _I am your son._ "  
His father replied, again, " _Be silent._ "

The khan interrupted.  "You wish not the honor of service in the court of the Khan of Khans?"  Marco bowed his head.  "What greater tribute can a man offer than his own flesh and his own blood?

You Latin merchants may engage in trade along my Silk Road.

Ahmad, my Minister of Finance, will discuss taxation and transit.  Take your leave."

"Marco, you have to trust me." Niccolo lowered his head in supplication and began backing away, towards the large wooden doors, and his brother Maffeo followed his lead.

Marco stepped forward, and several guards stepped out to restrain him.  He struggled half-heartedly.  He knew, deep within himself, that his attempts were futile, but he could not stop himelf.  " _Padre!_ "

"This will not be forever," he said placatingly, looking up.

" _Don't do this._ "

"We will secure the trade routes and return for you." And with this, Niccolo stepped through the doors.

Kublai Khan stared down at the scene before him, and then looked at the departing merchant.  "And I still want those priests."

" _Padre! Don't leave me here._ "

Marco felt suddenly as if he had been submerged in water, as if he was back on the boat and a great wave had risen up and held him for a minute in its watery embrace, and then he was screaming and he heard himself from a large distance.

" _No ... no, no padre favore per favore per favore no non mi lasciare qui per favore per favore"_ and Niccolo was standing just behind the doors that were swinging shut, and he wouldn't look at his face.  And Marco was five and his mother was telling him that his father was a very brave adventurer, and she promised that he would come back one day and they would all live together. And he was six and his mother was so so pale and so so cold and she wouldn't look at him, she was just staring at the ceiling, and he had screamed her name and shaken her because she had  _promised;_

He blinked, his face burning and his eyes bright with betrayal and tears that had been shed for aloneness many years ago, and he was 22 and his father was trading him to the Khan of Khans like he was so many gold pieces.


End file.
